Hound of God — By Rob D. Smith

Les Stansbury drove the Beargrass Park’s Ford Ranger service vehicle through the interior loop of the park. Most attendants at closing time would start with the interior roads working their way to the main outside loop, making sure the visitors knew it was time to leave. Les started outside then drove into the center of the park where he could park at the offices and be done. Saved gas and time. He wasn’t sure why the park officials wouldn’t implement his suggestions.

The park was open dawn to dusk. Sunset in early September was eight o’clock. Some visitors liked to push it, but most were on their way out. Kids had school, and parents had work. Monday evenings were usually slow. He hated to see the kids leave but not the parents.

Besides working with children at the Nature Center, sunset was his favorite time of the work shift. Cruising around the park at a slow speed. Crickets called out to mates. Wrapping the park up for tomorrow. Who else had a job where they could watch the sunset every night over a lush forest? A nice time to gather his thoughts and take stock of his day. This wasn’t the best paying gig he ever had, but it fed his soul.

As he circled the bend, he glimpsed movement at the edge between Bent Oak Trail and the paved walk path that circled the soybean field. A deer perhaps then he saw it was a young long-legged boy. Les pulled the truck over to the side of the road and got out. He looked about as he approached the boy but didn’t see anyone else. The kid was around eleven or twelve, he guessed. The boy wore khaki shorts and a blue t-shirt. He watched the sky.

“Ahoy,” he called out.

The boy didn’t stop looking into the sky. “Are you a sailor?”

Les stopped a few feet away and put his hands on his hips. “No. Just a park attendant. I prefer to use ahoy.”

“For the whimsy.”

Les chuckled. “A quick-witted young man like yourself must know the park closes at night. Do you need me to call your parents?”

“That would be a neat trick if you could.”

“I’m sorry. Are you by yourself?”

“No, I’m with you, silly.”

Les let out a puff of air. “Young man, it’s time to head out. Use your phone to call whoever is giving you a ride. The park is closed.”

“That’s a shame.” The kid stepped further down the trail into the woods.

Les followed the boy down the trail. “Hey! You can’t roam around.”

The boy crouched on his haunches, still looking skyward. He noticed the boy was barefoot. Les had just about reached him when the boy stood up. “Did you know it’s the Corn Moon tonight?”

“I didn’t. Now, if you would just follow me, I am sure I can get you to the office where you can call for a ride.” He reached out to touch the boy, but the kid deftly slipped away. He dashed further down the trail out of sight. The canopy of trees provided a lot of shade during the day. In the evening, it was like falling into a cave. Les reached for his radio to call for help and realized he left it in his truck. He decided to chase after the kid anyway.

He caught up to the boy around the bend that opened up by Beargrass Creek. This area was not covered by the tall trees, and the lighting wasn’t awful since the moon had begun to rise. The cloudless night helped. The boy peered into the running creek water, now watching the moon’s broken reflection. He stood close to the edge. The water wasn’t deep enough to be dangerous, but Les didn’t want a wet hooligan in his truck.

He angled his body between the boy and the trail. Cutting off his escape. “What’s your name?

The boy took his shirt off and placed it on the ground. There were three ragged claw scars across his chest. “I was cursed by Saint Thiess. For seven years, I serve as a Hound of God.”

“Ah, kiddo. Who hurt you?”

The boy unzipped his shorts, let them fall to the earth, then kicked them onto his shirt, making a pile. He stood pale and gaunt in his white underwear. The scars bloomed scarlet.

He tried a different tack. “I’m Les. If you let me, I can help you.”

“We know who you are, Les Stansbury.” The boy turned his back on him and pulled down his underwear a bit. He began to pee a circle around his pile of clothes. “Defiler of children. Eater of hope.”

The sour urine stung his nose. “Who are you?”

“Ahoy! I am your reckoning.” The boy looked up. His jaw sprouted tufts of hair. “The Corn Moon was once called the Harvest Moon. It is not my favorite moon, but it will do.”

Les thought he heard rocks grinding, but the boy’s forearms elongated three inches in front of him. The child closed his eyes and grunted as sharp claws sliced out from his fingertips. His underwear ripped apart when his hips spread. Pop, pop, pop. The little boy’s jaw cartilage snapped apart, revealing sharp fangs. His eyes opened, and they sheened black with blood.

Les froze. He felt warm urine dampen his pants leg. He sought prayers from his childhood. None came to him. He turned to run. “I don’t want…”

The Hound of God pounced on his shoulders, sinking whetted fangs into the back of his neck. The horrid bite clipped his vertebrae with a wet snap. They say you don’t feel anything when your spine is cut. That nerves die. Les felt every laceration. Every claw. Every bite.

Life ebbed away from him. His eyes searched for the boy who was God’s reaper.

He only heard footsteps, then an exalting howl.

AUTHOR BIO:

Rob D. Smith is a common man attempting to write uncommon fiction in Louisville, KY. His work has appeared in Apex Magazine, Shotgun Honey, and The Arcanist. He co-hosts The Abysmal Brutes podcast that explores pop culture storytelling at https://theabysmalbrutes.podbean.com/ Follow him on Twitter @RobSmith3